The Patriot

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  The patriot from his walls of brass
  Is singing loudly as I pass;
  With fearless heart and open eyes,
  He shouts the ancient battle cries;
  And, where I pause to hear him sing,
  A silent crowd is listening.

  My country, God bestows by thee
  The glory of the world to be
  The glory thou alone canst give
  To last amid things fugitive.

  My country, an ideal form
  I see thee splendid in the storm,
  Directress of the power divine
  That makes the expectant future thine.

  My country, all the world shall bow
  Before thy peace-conceiving brow,
  And all the peoples humbly stand
  Submissive to thy blessing hand.

  My country, yea, the foes who raise
  A tyrant flag shall learn to praise
  Thy steadfast love that dares to fight
  The horde of Satan for the right.

  My country, loveliest, strongest, best,
  Thou hast a mission to the rest,
  And greater wealth and love shall be
  The guerdon of thy ministry.

  In every land I hear him sing;
  In every land I see him fling
  His country’s flag against the skies
  And gaze aloft with dazzled eyes;
  And then his loud applause rings round
  His walls of brass with brazen sound;
  And deep below his cheering loud
  I mark the murmur of the crowd.

© John Le Gay Brereton